Scene: an ordinary suburban home where A and B are getting ready to leave for work. But A’s car keys have gone missing… A: You’ve seen my car keys, haven’t you? B: Today? No, I don’t think so. A: When did I mention today? Just answer the question: you’ve seen my car keys, haven’t you? […]

Having nearly died by suicide six years ago, I can imagine what people would have said about me. They would’ve talked about my deep depressions, my unpredictable rage, how lost I was.

Maybe, like you, they would’ve said that I was better off dead. Maybe, like you, they would have callously remarked that some people with mental illness can’t be helped.

Here’s a letter for you, Amanda, from someone “beyond help.”

You were right to judge yourself for exploiting Leah’s story, because it’s exactly what you did. You took the life of a mentally ill person and diminished it, deciding to use her struggles for your own personal gain.

Mentally ill people do not exist as entertainment for you. They do not exist as a sensational story to tell. They are not a product for your consumption. We are not property, we are not objects, we are not paychecks…

Since being diagnosed with autism in my mid-30s, I’ve been re-thinking a lot of things.

I’ve spent a lifetime of trying to appear to be the same as everyone else. I’ve been watching. I’ve been studying. Every book, article, overheard conversation, brings me that little bit closer to passing for normal.

I’ve spent a long time thinking about who I ought to be.

And I thought you were all doing it too. Maybe not everyone. Maybe a few of you were in on the secret, but I assumed, as we all do, that the way I see the world is the way everyone does.

Now I know that when I don’t understand you, it’s not that I’ve missed out the rules of the game, it’s that you’re playing Monopoly whilst I’m playing Rugby Union.

It’s not that I’m coming at it from the wrong angle, it’s that I don’t have…